


On the Courting Habits of Middle-Earth

by superblue



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bilbo stays in Erebor, Emotionally Constipated Thorin, Humor, Light Angst, Multi, No one ring, Oblivious Bilbo, Pining, amusing misunderstandings, courting, everyone is smitten with Bilbo, no gold sickness, thorin writes poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-10-20 16:38:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10666608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superblue/pseuds/superblue
Summary: “You will lose ‘im if ye wait too long, mark me words.”What did Dwalin mean he would “lose” Bilbo? Lose him to what, to whom? Not another dwarf, surely.The idea was preposterous – absolutely outside the realm of belief.Wasn’t it?--------------------In which Bilbo remains in Erebor, is loved by all, and Thorin has to find the strength to tell him how he feels before someone else does first.





	1. The Clockwork Rose

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is 100% fun. This is my happy fic. I write other stories that are much more serious, and I am happy to say that there be no seriousness here!
> 
> Expect silliness and humor, pining and obliviousness, and in the end - true love conquers all!
> 
> This is my first fic in the Hobbit fandom, after much lurking, and not betad, so all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

The guild masters were tiresome.

They were tiresome, irksome, quarrelsome, and every manner of colourful expletives Thorin could manage in the three languages of which he was currently fluent. This included the unspoken language of Iglishmêk, which had its own satisfying array of offensive signs. Truth be told, his patience was at an end, and he was tempted to do something quite rude (verbally or physically), and it was only through his majestic and kingly training that he was able to stay his hands; otherwise Thorin II Oakenshield, King Under the mountain, was certain he could give these _kakhuf inbarathrag_ a gestural dressing down so thorough their braids would smoulder and spontaneously ignite in wild, wicked flames.

On second thought, perhaps filling the hall with the acrid stench of burnt hair might grant him a stay of a day or two.

As it was, it was no great surprise that he’d been sat in the Hall of Durin now for more than half a day, arguing over the same contracts the masters managed to come to an agreement on just the day before.  This type of circular negotiating – agreeing, disagreeing, agreeing but only on article three, and ready to agree on the whole contract if not for subject sixteen – put his teeth on edge and threatened serious harm to his mental wellbeing, tenuous as it already was.

Unfortunately, long, protracted contract negotiations did nothing for a guild master save feed some sort of compulsory dwarven fear that he or she was getting the shite end of the deal.

So here they were again, once more haggling over mineral rights between the Jeweller’s guild and the Weaponsmith’s guild on who should be allowed the most gold and silver ore, the most gems, the most refined iron, etc. Mahal above it was tedious in the _extreme_.

Despite his mental vexation, Thorin did manage to appear engaged in the proceedings. It was a gift, a certain stiffness of face he’d perfected when he was just a prince and forced to sit in these same types of exhausting sessions with his father and grandfather – and most of the other dwarves were none the wiser, intent as they were on bickering, red-faced and bristle-bearded till they barely had breath left in their bodies.

“Masters, masters all, please, if you will,” Balin, Mahal bless his just heart, finally raised a smooth hand to quieten the masters before continuing, “would I be correct in assuming this particular disagreement comes from the allotments from the mithril vein found recently? Or are we once again quibbling over the gold ingots gifted from the Iron Hills?”

“Don’t be daft Fundinson, the mithril of course,” Beldwer Hirsson insisted, sat to the left of Thorin and veritably doused in an overabundance of glittering jewellery, “I already agreed, quite graciously if I do say so myself, that the gold could go to the Weaponsmith's on the condition that any additional weapons decoration, gilding, and jewelcrafting be approved by my own masters.”

“Approved by _your_ guild? What utter nonsense! I’ll have you know my smiths are just as knowledgeable and nimble-fingered as any of your mincy-bearded jewellers –”

“They aren’t and it’s a known fact! I will _not_ have my guild shamed by dodgy quality craftsmanship!”

“How _dare_ you –” Nâdin, the heavily pregnant headmistress of the Weaponsmith’s guild, swung her hefty skirts above her knees, which was no mean feat, and hefted herself atop the table before any could catch her. She was halfway across the stony expanse before Dwalin, faster than even Thorin previously thought possible, grasped her about the shoulders and heaved her to the side as she screeched, “I’ll show you dodgy craftsmanship you son of a tree-shagger! I’ll have you eating those beads in your hair before you have a chance to say goat’s bollocks! _A pox on your whiskers!_ ”

The entire room, save Thorin and Balin, erupted in an uncontrollable milieu of flying hair, flinging braids, throwing knives, and curses upon family names.

Thorin sighed.

And so it went on, and on, _and on_.

If not for Balin and Dwalin, he’d have long ago declared a blood feud with each and every one of these guilds purely for aggravating his already high-strung sensibilities. But alas, one does not start century’s long disagreements with a number of dwarven clans merely because they prove to be unreasonable.

No.

 _That_ kind of behaviour belonged to the elves.

And during moments like this, when he looked across the Hall and saw fists swinging and spittle flying, he reminded himself to think of Bilbo.

Bilbo Baggins, his only rock in the raging river that was ruling Erebor. It had been entirely too long since he’d spent any quality time with the mountain’s only resident hobbit. As such, Bilbo was seen as quite the exotic creature, leaving his social calendar somewhat bereft of free time, and bartering for a place in his busy schedule proved to be difficult on more than one occasion. Thorin’s irritation and moodiness could easily be offset by a simple hour or two with Bilbo’s soft presence, quick wit, and delicious shire-grown pipe-weed.

Yes, a visit with Bilbo would be most welcome, sooner rather than later.

With the decision made to visit his hobbit as soon as dwarfly possible, he looked up from his thoughts to find the Hall much calmer than before, thanks to Dwalin and his retinue of eager guardsman. Beldwer and Nâdin had put aside their differences, apparently, and were currently canoodling under the table – they were married, of course, and very much in love even while expecting their fifth child. Balin had expertly calmed the rest of the rowdy crowd with a well-placed platitude or compliment, and that seemed enough for the time being.

Thorin slammed his hands down on the marble table, the resounding thud resulting in all eyes alighting quickly upon the king.

“Are you all _quite_ finished?” The master dwarves balked at his tone before looking amongst themselves as their king, who’d been unusually morose the entire meeting, suddenly decided to chime in on the situation with gusto. “Beldwer and Nâdin, this disagreement is yours, and as such, I expect you to have come to a fair conclusion before next we meet. This meeting is over.”

Thorin left no room for argument, the _narag_ around his lids darkening his gaze, endowing his clear, blue eyes with an otherworldly menace many loathed to have turned upon their person.

Dwalin approached him when the hall finally emptied and the sounds of squabbling dwarves faded away into the grand stone corridors of the mountain. Balin had taken his leave as well, muttering about ‘diplomacy’ and ‘a pox on your whiskers, indeed,’ before gathering his parchment and utensils and finding his own way out through the carven doors.

“Well?”

Thorin leant back into his chair, a hand trembling over his weary brow. “Well what?”

“Somethin’ on yer mind?”

“It would be easier to tell you what was _not_ on my mind, my friend; it is burdened with many thoughts.”

“Ach, go see ‘im then,” Dwalin waggled his eyebrows, his tattoos undulating atop his bald head like a particularly lecherous den of snakes, “I’m sure he can cure wot ails ya.”

Smiling in spite of himself, his kingly countenance be _thrice_ damned, Thorin removed the heavy Raven crown, letting it lie bold and burdensome upon the marbled table. “He has other, more important ways to fill his time than to suckle a surly king like some nursemaid.”

Dwalin choked on his own saliva before coughing loud enough to give Thorin pause. “Ehm…apologies yer Majesty but…you did say _suckle_.”

Dwalin laughed even harder as Thorin pulled a face that was most unamused. It turned into a full-bellied guffaw when Thorin then decided to turn as red as a boiled beetroot.

“I have had dwarves imprisoned for less!” Thorin straightened, his meaty hands gripping the scrolled wooden sides of his chair.

“Aye, ye have now, but I’m thinkin’ I will not see the inside of a prison cell this day.” Dwalin’s laughing lessened as he wiped a tear away from one eye, his expression finally settling into one of truest and deepest affection.

Thorin huffed and stood, stretching his aching bones. “Indeed, I must say you read my mind.”

“And when’s the big day then? When will ye finally ask?”

Expression sharpening, Thorin frowned. “My closest friend you may be, yet you still presume too much.”

Dwalin seemed unconcerned and only shrugged his massive shoulders. “You will lose ‘im if ye wait too long, mark me words.”

And like some great portent of doom, Dwalin’s statement echoed in the chamber, taking on weight and growing heavy. Thorin did not like the sound of it at all.

“…explain yourself.”

“Jus’ an opinion,” Dwalin began to saunter away from the King, walking backwards, almost swaggering, “based on me own observations.”

“You try my patience.”

“Only your patience? I mus’ be losing me touch.” He laughed out loud once more as he left the room, pushing both of the heavy oak doors away from him in a display of cockiness that rankled on Thorin’s nerves.

What did Dwalin mean he would “lose” Bilbo? Lose him to what, to whom? Not another _dwarf_ , surely.

The idea was preposterous – absolutely outside the realm of belief.

Wasn’t it?

* * *

 

For the rest of the morning, Thorin’s thoughts remained troubled. Dwalin’s words echoed in his mind, replaying over and over even as the beginnings of paranoia sparked from a flicker to a flame. Was he foolish to think that Bilbo was his hobbit and his hobbit alone?

Of course, Thorin knew Bilbo was a free-thinking creature full of ideas, fire, and spirit; to think that he belonged to any one person was infinitely selfish and reminded him of the dark days he’d spent wallowing in Goldsickness and greed.

But, there was truth in Dwalin’s words, Thorin had to admit. His love for Bilbo was only known to a precious few, and Thorin had never truly thought to make his feelings clear to the hobbit. Perhaps it was fear of rejection – or maybe it was fear of acceptance – either way, the very thought of spending his remaining years with Bilbo at his side left an ache in his heart akin to hottest forges of the mountain.

Maybe it was time to break his silence – maybe it was time to stop this soul-deep pining.

Thorin smiled as he replaced his crown upon his head and strode head up and gaze high out of the Hall of Durin.

He had a plan.

Yes. It was time. He would profess his love for Bilbo Baggins and together they would rule Erebor, happy and beloved by all.

* * *

 

“Is it not the most glorious thing you’ve ever seen?”  

Bilbo veritably danced around the table, one hand hovering over a small, simple, coppery cube that rested directly over his mother’s favourite doily.

“It’s ehm – it’s not much; just a gift, a simple gift, Master Baggins,” and though these words were directed at the small hobbit quivering in unconcealed excitement, Faern only made eye contact with Thorin II Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain.

Thorin occupied a corner across the room, lurking, a borderline tyrannical presence ever since he’d been invited into _his_ hobbit’s quarters only to find a young, and rather underserving, _dwarfling_ obviously vying for Bilbo’s affections. The – the _usurper!_

“By Yavanna, don’t be silly! It’s lovely. More than lovely! How do I get it to work again?” Bilbo looked up from the contraption, shining eyes beseeching Faern, and then Thorin, in turn.

Thorin remained where he was, silent, and was extremely satisfied when Faern hesitated a long moment before moving towards the curious hobbit.

Good, he was afraid. He _should_ be afraid. Thorin was his king. Thorin could take this mangy intruder and have him thrown of the highest peak of the lonely mountain, he could –

No…no, too much. Bilbo would never approve. Thorin knew he was not schooled in what one would call subtlety; perhaps he’d have a quick discussion with Nori concerning this so-called _Faern’s_ place in Erebor later.

“I designed and crafted it myself, you see. It’s simple. Just a touch here,” Faern grazed his thick fingertips softly over the edge of the cube, pressing gently on a button so cleverly hidden it would take a jeweller’s glass to see it clearly, “and you have it.”

The cube rattled just a bit, vibrating and clicking in place before one long metallic tube, like a stalk erupting from the soil, extended from its lateral surface. It grew upwards towards the rounded ceiling of Bilbo’s little adopted hobbit hole, rather much more dwarven nowadays than hobbitish, before branching off into several smaller coppery shoots. Each shoot ended in an elegantly tapered tip from which one papery thin curl of metal twisted outwards, shimmering as it unfurled and flattened as leafs painted with shimmering emerald dust.

From the main shoot, curl after curl of pinkish leaflets unfolded and glowed ruby red, catching the light from Bilbo’s hearth in a heart-stopping array of shining metalwork that, even Thorin had to admit, was worthy of Yavanna’s gentle children.

It was a rose, Thorin realized, a clockwork rose that bloomed with only a gentle touch, and it was… _exquisite_.

Bilbo, enthralled and eyes big as the saucers he so fancied during tea service, finally turned towards Faern and gushed, wringing his hands before him.

“Truly, I…I cannot – oh bother! I cannot accept a gift such as this! Why – why it’s worthy of kings and great lords and…and I’m just a hobbit, really,” he reached out with a small hand, delicately gracing one sparkling rose petal with the tip of his finger, eyes still wide with awe. Thorin noted several of the petals were heavily inlaid with clear, glistening diamonds, faux dewdrops perhaps, and his mood became that much worse.

Mahal above, this _Faern_ was _good_.

Faern cleared his throat and stepped forward, visibly mustering his courage, though Thorin knew he was well aware of his king scrutinizing his every step.

“You deserve much more than this Master Baggins,” he motioned towards the clockwork rose as it began to curl up within itself, resetting and disappearing into its coppery base, only waiting for Bilbo’s gentle touch to come alive and bloom once more, “had I more skill I would fashion you a garden of eternally blooming flowers, if only to earn a moment of your time.”

Well, that was laying it on a bit thick, wasn’t it? Surely Bilbo wasn’t interested in this…this _child?_ Why his beard was shamefully scraggly and barely long enough to be braided, and his hair was woefully bare of beads. This _Faern_ was aiming rather high to think that Bilbo Baggins, Dwarf-Friend, Advisor to the King, and Saviour of the Realm would even entertain spending any time with –

“How about tea next Dursday?” Bilbo offered, a wide, pleased smile upon his face.

Faern answered with his own cock-sure grin, glowing with pride and self-satisfaction.

For a moment, Thorin’s mind blanked out completely, then – _explosions_.

Explosions, the sound of a thousand barrels of black powder charged through Thorin’s mind, roiling from deep in his gut and across his chest to settle inside his head, a companion to the rush of blood suddenly pounding in his ears.

Dwalin was right.

He was _right_.

Then he heard Bilbo say his name, the hobbit rather closer than he remembered, and he was pulled viciously back to reality.

“ – don’t you think?” Bilbo and Faern appeared to be waiting for him to respond in some way, but truth be told he had no Middle-Earthly idea what exactly he’d just been asked.

“Er, um, yes. Yes, of course. After the next moon. Yes.” He babbled. Mahal _wept_ , this was not kingly or majestic _at all_. He was off-balance, thrown for a loop, and all because he’d been too much of a coward to admit his feelings to his hobbit when he’d had the chance. Now – now this blasted _dwarfling_ was standing in _his_ place and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Thorin?” Bilbo said gently, concerned and confused enough to place a small hand on his formal blue robes. “I was only asking –”

“Apologies, Bilbo, but I must take my leave. Thank you. Enjoy your dinner and have a lovely evening. Good night!” He ripped his arm away from Bilbo’s touch, prompting a startled sound from the small creature, and turned on his heel, stomping with extreme prejudice out of Bilbo’s quarters back to his own royal rooms.

It was only after he slammed his door behind him, his room servants startling to his side, that he realized what a fool he’d been.

Good night indeed! It was only just past midday. He groaned in frustration, too embarrassed for words.

What would he do now? What _could_ be do? King or no, answers to particularly difficult questions such as these never came easy, and experience of the battlefield did not equate to experience in matters of the heart. As it was, Thorin was woefully deficient in the courtlier, romantic arts, as dwarves were inclined to be straightforward and not hide behind flowers, poetry, and cleverness.

No. _That_ kind of behaviour belonged to the elves.

But, was that what Bilbo wanted? He surely seemed entranced by Faern’s gift, and Thorin admitted, begrudgingly, that it was quite a gift…a courting gift even. Why, Bilbo had even responded to his advances! With an invitation to tea no less!

By Durin’s great twining beard, the mountain was falling down around his steel tipped boots!

He needed counsel – he needed a logical mind to offset this maelstrom of emotions currently coursing through his braids. He rushed across his room to his study, ripping a scroll of parchment from his great stone desk and hurriedly scribbling a missive to the one person he could think of when he found himself in such dire, confusing situations.

_To my dearest sister D_ _ís…_

* * *

 

 

“Well,” Bilbo huffed, displeased and disappointed down to the downy tufts of his toes, “that was rather abrupt, don’t you think?”

Faern appeared unconcerned, and stood just an arm’s length away, hands clasped behind his back. “Our king has many things on his mind.”

It was a platitude, Bilbo knew, and it did not help his state of mind. He padded over to the table, the same which held his gloriously crafted gift, and plopped unceremoniously into one of the chairs.

“I suppose he didn’t want to share our tea after all?” Bilbo had had tea with Thorin many times, and it was unusual to think that Thorin would suddenly develop an aversion to one of Bilbo’s favourite, and traditionally hobbitish, pastimes.

“Regardless, I very much look forward to sharing your afternoon tea with you, if you still wish it Master Baggins.”

Bilbo regarded the young dwarf for a moment, leaning back and twisting the brass buttons on his waistcoat in his fidgety grip. Faern was handsome, as Bilbo thought most dwarves were, a fine specimen of dwarfhood with broad shoulders, a stout bearing as if carved from the mountain itself, and hair the blue-black of raven’s feathers caught just so by the sunlight. His beard was modest, he was still young, but promised to grow into a thicket of hair any dwarf would be proud of. Indeed, he was most handsome.

He was not, however, the one dwarf Bilbo had long ago set his Tookish heart upon, wild and foolish thing that it was.

Bilbo couldn’t help but feel he had offended Thorin somehow, and the feeling churned under his breastbone, alive and fierce, saddened by his king’s swift departure. Finally, he sighed and straightened, forcing a smile, cheeks dimpling, and nodded. He was a Baggins as well as a Took, and he couldn’t neglect his company over his own internal misgivings, especially since said company had been so kind to give him such a wonderful gift of friendship.

“Yes, alright Faern, Dursday it is. And please, call me Bilbo.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:
> 
> Many thanks to the Dwarven Scholar and the Neo-Khuzdul dictionary!
> 
> kakhuf inbarathrag - literally "goat turd(s)"
> 
> narag - black (color), in this case I am using it as a kind of kohl or eye makeup used to make Thorin look more...kingly!
> 
> Apparently Tolkien never assigned days of the week in the dwarven calendar, so I made up Dursday - Durin's Day of the week.
> 
> I plan to make this around 5 chappies or so, and keep in mind I have much respect for Tolkien and his world-building, but a little fun irreverence can be awesome too! Kudos or comment if you like!
> 
> *MWUAH*


	2. The Future King (or Prince!) of Dale: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin tries his hardest, he really does. Little does he know there is a hobbit within his mountain that returns his feelings, and then some.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Y'all I had too much fun writing this. I'm sorry for the gap but I am an inconsistent writer, though I do finish all of my works. Bear with me!
> 
> In the meantime, enjoy the silliness.

Thorin laid alone in his bed that night, after his darling little sister left in a fit of snorting laughter, and suffered. It was the suffering of a lonely, downtrodden King who had no clue what to do with the disobedient and mulish bit of nonsense in his chest that he supposed he could call his heart.

His _heart_.

What a ridiculous notion – that one beating bit of his person was the cause of all this…this _anguish_.

Surely it could be removed. Surely there had to be some kind of way to rid himself of this delusion of romance and one true love. After all, he was quite sure those feelings were created by the elves, and as such, had absolutely no purpose flapping about amongst the fierce and depthless sensibilities of a dwarf.

He groaned, his heart roaring in his ears, a _thump thump_ _thump_ that he could not ignore. It was all pervasive, and distracting, and not for the first time tonight he resigned himself to getting little to no sleep.

His thoughts wandered as he shifted on the mattress, and he couldn’t help but replay the earlier events of the evening. The memories appeared, as stark as shadows on the wall and as vivid as a stage-play in his mind.

* * *

 

“Have no fear dear brother! Dís is here!”

The papers about Thorin’s desk scattered as a rush of cool air entered his chambers along with his larger than life sister, who stood in the entranceway with arms akimbo, glorious in her bombastic and buxom glory.

He scrambled to collect his work, the few precious words he’d agonized over, if not to save them from the spilt ink, but also to keep them from the prying eyes of his sister.

“Thorin, what are you doing?” Dís flipped one heavily bejewelled braid behind her back and approached the desk with gusto, as if she was sure she was catching Thorin doing something quite indiscrete – perhaps even something… _elvish_.

She’d be right, but he wasn’t going to make it that easy.

“A simple knock would have sufficed.” Though he tried to sound quite unconcerned, Dís was no simple diamond chip, she wasn’t born last century after all.

“Were you writing?”

“No.” The ink-stains on his fingers betrayed him.

“Thorin,” she edged closer, seating herself daintily in one of the great stone chairs in front of him, “I ran all the way here, whiskers practically on fire, because I received the most ridiculous note from you that stated…and I quote ‘For I will die without fully knowing the One I love most, and please make sure not to entomb Fili and Kili next to me as it is certain they will embarrass me as badly in the halls of my forefathers as ever they did in Erebor,’ end quote.”

“Ehm.”

“Really, Thorin!”

“Well, I don’t – I don’t quite recall writing those specific –”

“Funeral arrangements, Thorin?!”

He collapsed forward, burying his head in his hands, fingernails glancing along his hairline in a moment of ineffective self-soothing.

“Would it make a difference if I said I wasn’t quite in my right mind when I wrote those words?”

Dís looked unamused as she crossed her legs under her velvet skirts, becoming as comfortable on an unpadded stone seat as only a dwarrow can be. “Well then you can tell that bizarre version of my brother that should he continue writing such _irrationalities_ he is almost certainly uninvited to the first Durin’s Day celebrations tomorrow.”

Thorin had no reply to this, and his mind wandered towards the few lines of ink he’d set upon paper just before his sister forced herself upon his study. When next Dís spoke, the humour and affected fury was gone from her tone, it was now gentle and concerned.

“Thorin, I wouldn’t be a very good sister, or mother, if I couldn’t read between the lines. That ridiculous letter aside, you are troubled and I aim to get to the vein of the matter.”

“Dís –”

“No.” She leant forward, her thick fists pounding on the gleaming surface of his desk, further disrupting his papers. “You asked for my help and by Mahal’s stones you will _get it!_ ”

In the end, Thorin wasn’t the only one who noticed a particular slip of paper, scribbled upon and littered with strikethroughs, reveal itself from under the mountain of other clean sheaths of pristine parchment at her abrupt movement.

And, unfortunately, he wasn’t fast enough to prevent his energetic sister from snapping the writing up with a knowing eye. She waved the offending evidence in the air, very satisfied with herself.

“I knew it! You _have_ been writing!”

* * *

 

Thorin tossed in a fit, uncomfortable in his massive bed. He had never been a dwarf that was overly fond of creature comforts, to be sure, regardless of the luxury he was afforded merely by being born a Durin. No, he was equally at home laying in a simple bedroll on the stony roads as he was in his own sumptuous quarters.

But tonight he could find no comfort in the quilts that rested heavy upon his person, or on the feathery pads that moulded themselves to the lines of his body, as his mind was in turmoil, a whirlwind of doubt and confusion that would not be assuaged by reason.

He wondered, as he often did in the small hours of the night when he was alone and aching, if Bilbo would ever return his affections. He wondered what it would be like to turn on his side and not see a barren landscape of cloth and folds of fabric, but a small, indulgently soft body, turned towards him, sleepily snuffling and as bare as the day he first graced Arda.

Thorin groaned and shifted, preferring not to focus on such purposefully inflammatory thoughts when he had a long, long fortnight of Durin’s Day celebrations ahead of him. Instead, he recalled the remainder of his sister’s disastrous confrontation he had suffered through only hours ago.

* * *

 

“What… _what is this?_ ”

Thorin wanted to hide, he wanted to dematerialize and join the other, less noticeable, scurrying creatures that inhabited the dark places of the mountain. Namely, he wanted to slither out from under his sister’s accusing eye and perhaps join his ancestors in Mahal’s Halls forthwith, perhaps quite sooner than he’d intended – which was , that is to say, _immediately_.

“Thorin.”

He refused to meet her eyes, knowing he would find only disapproval and judgement.

“Thorin…” Her tone had taken on the low and almost dangerous inflection he’d heard her use on Fili and Kili when they were at their most mischievous.

There was nothing for it. She had found his shame. She had found his – his _poetry_.

Finally, he raised his noble brow and strengthened his dwarfish reserves. Dís had always been a formidable dam, terrifying even by the standards of the mountain, but Thorin was _King_ under said Mountain by the _Gods_ , he could take it!

Her expression of stern, but fond amusement undermined his mental resolved and he breathed a sigh of relief, he would not die of shame this day.

“So, it is true then. My brother, the fiercest and most outwardly dispassionate dwarrow ever to grace the lonely mountain has lost the battle for his heart.”

He twisted his mouth in displeasure as she doubled over in her seat, peals and peals of full-bellied laughter shaking her person.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

She paused in her mirth.

“Surprised? _Surprised?_ Excuse me my joy but I never thought I’d see the day! The great Thorin II Durin, Oakenshield by name, has finally found himself downwind from the great fiery bellows of love! By the first forge, I am ecstatic!”

And though he reminded himself to be stern, unmoving, he could not prevent a softening of his countenance on seeing his sister so unreservedly entertained.

“But by the finest gems,” she wiped an errant tear from her flushed cheeks, “this needs some work.”

Thorin immediately scowled. He had laboured and agonized over every single word scratched upon the surface of that parchment, made from only the finest goatskin the mountain could afford, and he’d be doubly damned if his sentiments thereupon, though new and unrefined, couldn’t but elicit only the most heartfelt and purest reciprocation of love.

“Oh don’t give me that look,” Dís moved forward, sliding the stone chair with her in an impressive display of strength, and rested her elbows on the desk directly across from him, “you can use that fearsome frown on your subjects but that hasn’t worked on me since I was sixty-five and you know it.”

Ah well, he couldn’t argue with that, it was absolutely true.

She reached across the surface, lifting her heavy emerald velvet sleeve out of the way, and moved the ink and quill towards her side. With a practiced hand, she dipped the instrument into the ink and gave her brother a critical eye.

“What are you doing?” He was suddenly _quite_ afraid.

“Thorin,” she continued with a soothing tone, lest Thorin’s feathers get as ruffled as the swan from which the quill originated, “I’m only going to make a few…corrections.”

“Corrections? There is nothing that needs corrected.” How dare she insinuate that his epic poetry was somehow lacking! The sentiment was perfection itself.

Dís cleared her throat, lifting the parchment in a grand gesture and read aloud.

“ _Like the greatest couples of yore_ , _you are the slag to my ore_.” She raised an eyebrow.

“It’s…” Thorin faltered, momentarily balking under her gaze, “it’s a mining metaphor.”

“But it’s slag! It’s a run-off waste product Thorin! It’s what’s left over _after_ we remove the good stuff!”

“It’s an essential part of the smelting process – there cannot be one without the other!”

“It’s…it’s just not very _poetic_ , brother. Essential or not it’s a by-product we use to make cheap glass we sell to the elves while we laugh behind their backs. Is this how you want to express your affections?”

Thorin drew his brows together. Perhaps, as a dwarf, he should stay away from the metaphors.

“And this,” she straightened, “ _though whiskers be fair, it is alright you are bare_. Well, that’s a backhanded compliment if I’ve ever heard one!”

Thorin bristled, “you, you are reading it out of context. If you would just –”

She affixed her brother with a glare that would melt stone, if said stone be so unfortunate to cross wits with Dís Durin.

“Fine, I…I’ll think of something else. But surely the rest of the lines are more than adequate.”

She scoffed and read again.

“ _Your head is wide and brown, an adequate seat for my massive crown_.”

Dís only regarded him in silence after that, face set in an expression that begged the question as to what he could have possibly been thinking.

“What does that even mean? Are you being literal? _Massive crown?_ It’s more than a little suggestive, brother dear, one might think you were alluding to _other_ heads.”

He was instantly scandalized.

“Absolutely not! The consort’s crown is quite large, a strong head and constitution is necessary. I’m – I’m saying that they would be a good fit. Any dwarf would be pleased to read such words!”

With a sigh, she set the parchment down gently and lowered the quill. He face grew soft, her eyes almost sad.

“But therein lies the rub, Thorin.” She placed her hands atop his, suddenly very serious, “you’re not writing this for a dwarf, are you?”

* * *

 

When the time came for his personal attendant to roust him from bed, he’d slept nary a wink. His quilts twisted and bunched haphazardly along his bed, so much so that it surely appeared he’d fought a great battle with U'rakh, the master of dreams and desire himself, than suffered a sleepless night alone in his quarters.

Not a word was said, however, because all it took was one exhausted look from Thorin for his servant to shuffle along and prepare the kings effects post-haste.

Today he, and chosen representatives from his company, would be dining in the newly, mostly, restored city of Dale. It was a banquet newly agreed upon, and but one celebration of many that lead up to the greatest holiday of the entire dwarven calendar, Durin’s Day.

Though initially suggested by Balin as a means to foster relations between themselves and the recent king of Dale, Bard Bowman, Thorin thought the idea had great merit and had pushed the banquet through his personal council. It would bring no great hardship upon his people, and as he owed the death of Smaug himself, the chiefest and greatest of all calamities, to the newly crowned King, he felt that showing a measure of his gratitude would not go amiss.

 As it was, his servant had prepared and brought forth, for his consideration, only the most impressive and ceremonious of Thorin’s kingly raiments. Between his tunic, dripping in gleaming cabochons of diamond and sapphire and worked through with mithril thread, and the bespoke Mantle of Durin, with its collar lined in the most luxurious silver warg fur, he cut a fearsome and majestic presence indeed.

After his hair was suitably oiled, braided, and bedecked in beads only the Durin family could claim, he was ready to meet his company and looked forward to a night of celebration and further fostering of goodwill between his people and the men of Dale.

He caught his faint reflection in a polished metal decoration just as he exited his quarters.

Yes, very majestic indeed. This would certainly do.

* * *

 

Bilbo was wholly unprepared for the knock at the door, when it came.

He had flitted away his time, trying to decide between wearing the finest of his new hobbit style waistcoats or donning one of the graciously gifted dwarven tunics in deference to the upcoming holiday.

“Oh botheration and – and consternation!” He scowled at his reflection in the mirror and stomped towards the door, ushering Bofur into his quarters with nary a by-your-leave.

“Bilbo! Yer not ready?!”

Bilbo threw an arm behind him dismissively, stalking back over to his wardrobe, grumbling all the while. Yes, he’d manage to fluff and buff his foot hair – he could never be so distracted as to forget his hobbit propriety – and arrange his curls in a, hopefully, fetching fashion. But, when it came to choosing his attire, he was at quite a loss.

What would Thorin prefer? What was his favourite colour? He’d heard tell of _Durin Blue_ from Dori, that being the chosen colour for the official garments of line of Durin…but would Thorin prefer to see Bilbo in blue rather than yellow? Which would catch his eye?

He was hopelessly be-bothered by it all.

“Are ye ill?” Bofur lingered in the doorway to Bilbo’s bedroom, seemingly unwilling to move forward into the hobbit’s more personal space. He clutched at the flaps of his famous hat, though it was new and quite spruced up for the banquet.

“Dear me no! I just…I’m not sure what I should wear. If this were the Shire it would be simple, I’d not even give it a thought. But this is a celebration for a dwarven holiday, amongst men no less!”

“Wha’ does that matter?”

“Well, I don’t want to step on any toes, you see? _My_ feet may be hardy, but what are hobbit feet to fostering political relations and ensuring the wealth and happiness of two kingdoms? Should I dress like a hobbit, or should I dress like a dwarf?” Bilbo threw his hands into the air.

He needed a snack, oh where did he put the blackberry preserves again?

He made a beeline across the rooms towards his larder, never one to ignore the demands of his appetite, especially when he found himself in a stressful situation. Before he knew it, he’d pulled out several scones, clotted cream from the ice box, and the aforementioned preserves before Bofur, at this point quite alarmed, stayed his ravenous hands.

“No! No, there’s no time, Bilbo!”

Bilbo merely glared at the dwarf, unable to fully express the depths of his sartorial quandary.

“Look ‘ere now. No one’s gonna look twice a’ whether ye wear one coat over th’ other. Jus’ make sure yer comfortable. No one expects ye to be anythin’ other than wha’ ye are.”

Bilbo stuffed his mouth full of a suitably preserve and cream laden scone while he thought about everything. It was true that he was no dwarf. Perhaps he should truly take a step back and simplify.

He munched his way through every scone before he felt calm enough to address Bofur once more.

“Bofur,” he swallowed, still yet tasting the blackberries on his tongue, “you are one of my dearest and closest friends. I believe you speak the truth, but I…I am ashamed to say I’m quite nervous. I’m no great diplomat, I’m just a hobbit…and not even a very intimidating hobbit at that!”

“Ah, an’ you don’ need to be.”

Bilbo inhaled, parsing through all his fears and finally coming to a decision.

“Very well then,” he wiped his hands on a small dishcloth hanging near his oven, “just give me five minutes.”

“Bilbo! We’ll be late!”

The hobbit tweaked Bofur’s neat and shiny braids, smiling at his friend with undisguised affection.

“Five minutes and we’ll be off!” He laughed and trotted back to his room, wiping a few stray crumbs from his mouth.

* * *

 

Truly, the men of Dale were quite boisterous!

In the hour or so it had taken for the company of Thorin II Oakenshield to make their way towards the repaired lodgings of the king of Dale, Bilbo’d been privy to some of the most outlandish behaviour this side of the famed party tree of Hobbiton! They cheered and shouted, waving from their doorsteps or leaning, quite dangerously to Bilbo’s immense displeasure, far out of their second storey windows with ropes of decorations in tow.

After the reclamation of Erebor and the revitalisation of Dale, of which Thorin shared the bulk of responsibility considering it was through his actions that Lake-town was destroyed, the dwarves of the mountain were no longer looked upon with anger and distrust. Thorin was more than generous with Erebor’s unseemly stores of gold, and as such had distributed a large portion of his wealth to the innocent, and desperate, people of Lake-town who looked only to rebuild their lives.

Their parade was met with many good wishes, and Bilbo felt the warmth of their greetings settle in his heart.

As for their majestic and stoic king, Thorin rode in the front, a stark figure in his blue and silver, face calm but frozen in a countenance as fierce as any dwarven ruler before him.

He and Bilbo had only shared a moment’s word before they received the signal to mount their ponies and move out.

It went much like this:

“Thorin!” Bilbo stood on his tiptoes, desperately trying to catch even a glimpse of his king. After the conversation with Bofur, he’d finally decided on traditional hobbit clothing, and felt extremely fine in his soft, calfskin breeches, and sunny yellow waistcoat. He wore a coat that was almost identical to the raspberry coloured affair he’d worn as he ran out of his smial nearly two years before, and the delicate buttery hue of his neckerchief was stitched through with fancy green vines.

He made for quite the hobbit dandy, thank you very much, but this did result in both of them being quite late to the parade preparations, and there was little time for pre-banquet pleasantries.

The dwarf himself soon appeared amongst the crowd of the company, moving away from Balin and Dwalin and cutting a figure of such nobility that Bilbo had to loosen his neckerchief or sweat right through the gauzy fabric.

Goodness, he was a handsome dwarf indeed! He was truly the stuff of legends and stories, a hero that could inspire epic ballads and droves of disappointed, heartbroken suitors.

And, and Bilbo was such a small, insignificant hobbit.

 Bilbo’s eyes drifted along the lines of his strong face, framed by the smaller and more delicate _beleb-aklum_ that sat lightly upon his brow. Glóin had explained about the crown (a smaller version of the Raven crown made of mithril and obsidian and more suitable for informal gatherings), with his wee lad Gimli in tow, with a wink. It was well known that outsiders were forbidden to learn _Khuzdul,_ but he stated they couldn’t rightly call Bilbo an outsider anymore now could they?

 “Master Baggins,” Thorin nodded, towering over Bilbo to such a degree that he felt compelled to take a step or two back.

He also tried not to fidget, but alas, as a naturally anxious creature, he could only barely contain his twiddly fingers and twitchy toes.

Thorin took a moment to regard the hobbit, and Bilbo swallowed again as his enigmatic gaze ran up and down Bilbo’s plump form. He was entirely thankful he’d been able to return to a decent hobbitish weight during his time in the mountain, though he was unsure as to whether Thorin would appreciate his regained figure as much as, say, any proper hobbit of the Shire. This caused an extreme amount of insecurity in said hobbit, and he fiddled with the golden buttons on his waistcoat.

“Your clothing, is it new?” Thorin inquired, clasping his hands behind his back. “It suits you very well.”

“Y-yes! Courtesy of Dori of course, your majesty!” Oh, Yavanna’s shimmering bosom, he sounded like a tween.

“It is very…hobbitish, you must be pleased.” He glanced around the assembled dwarves, nodding at a few others, before returning to the small hobbit before him. “Pardon me, the parade is set to begin. I’m sure we will speak again during the banquet.”

Bilbo barely had a chance to squeak a goodbye before Thorin turned away and caught young Ori’s ear. Dori was by his side, lovingly protective of his small brother, and Nori…well, no doubt Nori was somewhere nearby, crawling along a vent and keeping watch over the company.

A sudden hollow, scuffling, noise sounded above Bilbo’s shoulder and slightly to the right, as if it was embedded inside the walls. Ah, there was Nori, to be sure.

And as much as that made him smile, his mirth was dampened by Thorin’s comments and their very, very short meeting.

Oh dear, perhaps he should have worn the dwarven tunic after all.

* * *

 

Mahal, give him strength.

Bilbo Baggins was the loveliest creature in all of Arda.

These thoughts stayed with the King Under the Mountain long after his stunted meeting with said hobbit, and long after the King of Dale, Bard Bowman, greeted him at his doorstep and bade him come in.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay:
> 
> Beleb-aklum mean literally crystal crown, basically I wanted Thorin to have another crown to wear instead of that giant honking thing he has in the movies. 
> 
> The comment about Nori being in the vents is a direct allusion to a chapter in shockcity(pcp)'s 30 Day Bagginshield Challenge (chapter 13: getting married) which you can find here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10684146/chapters/23658291
> 
> It was too funny to me not to add to my story. *wink wink Shock, I adore you* i wish I could add a proper link but I tend to suck at html. Please go read, it is wonderful. 
> 
> I had a blast coming up with dwarfisms, but I think "Yavanna's shimmering bosom" might be my favorite creation thus far.
> 
> The Valar Irmo is the god of dreams and desire, I tried to find out what would be the Khuzdul equivalent as the name is in Quenya, but I couldn't find it. So it stayed Irmo.
> 
> Visit me on the Tumbles if you wish: superblue.tumblr.com


	3. The Future King (or Prince!) of Dale: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King Bard certainly knows how to throw a party!

 

King Bard Bowman, once a simple bargeman and dwarrow smuggler (plus one hobbit, thank you very much), lived a simple but satisfying life before he ascended to royalty. Since then, however, it seemed having been thrust headfirst into the life of finer things left much to be desired. It was apparent in his tired but solid frame, and in the new silver strands congregating at his most august temples.

He seemed in want of a friend, or at least a vaguely pointed ear to hear his sorrows, all of which one Bilbo Baggins was more than happy to provide. He’d visited King Bard on several occasions before this feast day and felt more than confident that he’d planted the initial seedlings of a true accordance, the fostering of which fell into his most capable hobbitish hands.

As the mannish King ushered them (that is to say, one hobbit and a horde of dwarrow looking for a good time) into the crumbling courtyard of his newly reclaimed palace, it became apparent that the restorations taking place before their eyes were a good deal far from over. Everywhere he looked there was at least several men, tall and lanky, as they were wont to be (why they couldn't be of reasonable proportions Bilbo did not know) fixing the masonry or sanding new wooden planks for the flooring of the grand new entrance.

That King Bard did not think himself above his subjects did him much credit, as allowing his guests to see his home in such rampant disrepair spoke of humility rarely seen in nobility. Perhaps it was his years as a lowly fisherman that taught him such deference of character, for Bilbo had never seen nor met a particularly haughty or presumptuous fish.

"I apologize for the mess," Bard swept a large hand over the scene, including a group of young men clearing rubble and constructing scaffolding to repair a rather large hole in the roof, "but repairs cannot be delayed, even on a day such as this. And worry not, they’ll be well compensated."

Thorin inclined his noble head while Bard spoke to his groomsmen, offering them a few low commands for the ponies to be cared for, brushed, and fed. Behind Bilbo, Dwalin grumbled, his mighty whiskers quivering, apparently loathe to allow his own dun-coloured mare to fall into the questionable care of another. Bilbo had learned, only recently, that he loved his pony more than the tattoos on his own bald head.

But, today was not a day for dissent, however well-meaning, today was a day for celebration, the very first day in the fortnight of activities scheduled for Durin's Day, the greatest and most festive holiday in the Dwarven calendar.

And as Bard moved forward towards the main hall, they all fell into a line, whispering amongst themselves about what kind of delicious foods had been prepared, and what kind of dancing they should expect.

Or, more importantly, what kind of ales and spirits would be at their sticky-fingered disposal.

Behind the walls of the keep, Bilbo could still hear the raucous cheers of the townsfolk of Dale even as the heavy wooden door of the hall opened before them and revealed a stately hall adorned with tapestries, long gleaming tables, and a group of boisterous musicians already set upon a jaunty tune that had even the fire dancing in its massive hearth.

Bilbo's little hobbit heart, despite being twisted in knots over his dwarven king, was immediately at ease. It seemed the homey, welcoming atmosphere was not lost on his companions either, as Bifur immediately accosted Bofur with a flurry of Iglishmêk that brought a flush to both their faces. They snickered at one another before Thorin caught them out with a look that was most unfriendly.

"Now, my esteemed guests, allow me to make my introductions before we see to the revelry proper." King Bard's face shone with warm humour as he moved towards the centre of the room, whereupon a group of young people waited. Their excitement was palpable.

Now, Bilbo was already familiar with Bard's family, though he would by no means say he was close with any one of them. As an important Diplomat Under the Mountain, Bilbo had been privy to many a meeting with Bard himself, but very rarely did he spend time with his children. This was shaping up to be quite a special day indeed!

"Of course you've met my children: Bain, Sigrid, and Tilda."

The group nodded as a collective, more probably less concerned with introductions as they were the delicious scent of roast mutton wafting from the royal kitchens. Bilbo, however, set a keen eye upon the youngsters, noting the differences in the three from since he saw them last.

Bain was growing into a fine young man. He was lithe and handsome, wiry like his father, and sporting a bit of facial scruff that any young man would be proud of (any young _man_ , that is, as dwarves were _born_ with more facial hair than that, and more than Bilbo thought was probably necessary, but you'd never hear him admit this). Bain held himself with the air of a boy not yet confident in the man he was becoming, but Bilbo knew that this surety of self only came with age, and was a struggle for all who straddled those tender years between childhood and maturity. He had no doubt Bain would make his father proud.

Sigrid, unlike her older brother, was fairer and much more cunning in manner. She stood with a sense of purpose, and bowed elegantly, holding back her skirts with a practiced hand. She seemed to have an eye for the younger dwarves, Fili and Kili namely (who, by the blessing of Yavanna and her eternal garden had decided to behave themselves today), who seemed of a height with the young lady, and smiled their dashing smiles in return.

Fili seemed especially charmed, and it took a scowl and decisive tug on his facial braids from Kili to remind him where he was and what he was doing. Bilbo, eyes flitting back and forth between the two, wondered fervently if there was something here that should be mentioned to Thorin...but then he thought better of it. Far be it from him to interfere with burgeoning interracial romance – that would hypocrisy of the most appalling sort.

Now they came upon the last familial member in the line of introduction and Bard's youngest daughter, Tilda. It seemed, to Bilbo's wary eye, if she could hide behind Sigrid's skirts, the company would see naught but a pair of bright blue eyes behind velvet folds for the rest of the evening; and he was not the only one to notice her hesitation, as Sigrid gently prompted her sister to greet the party.

Tilda seemed hesitant still, her eyes trained on the ground as if wood and rushes were far more interesting than a feast party of battle-hardened dwarves...and one hobbit.

Well, Bilbo huffed to himself, let it not be said that he was immune to such sights. The poor child! Bard seemed at a loss and unwilling to force merriment (surely this was no new behaviour for her), so Bilbo took it upon himself to put the shy young girl at ease.

He bowed his fanciest bow and smiled his most winsome smile, offering a hand to the lass. "My dear, Bilbo Baggins, at your service. Many thanks for allowing us into your home on this fine day. Perhaps after the feast you may give me a tour?"

He gripped the lapels of his coat and chuffed with pride when Tilda gave him the smallest of smiles, though she didn't quite meet his eyes. Sigrid stifled a small laugh, and Tilda scowled, flushing a violent red as she stepped away from her sister.

Bard continued the introductions with haste, moving from governess, to Master of the Hall in a slew of names that Bilbo (even at his most capable) could never hope to remember. He couldn't help but think that this was all in an effort to take attention away from his two suspicious daughters, who shared a number of incomprehensible looks between them.

Now, with the all the pleasantries accorded and accounted for, Bard finally allowed the company to take their places at the King`s Table. There were no assigned seats, save King Bard and Thorin, who would sit next to each other as expected, so Bilbo dithered, wanting to be close to his King but also wanting to not appear quite so...so obviously eager.

Now, one might say, where was that confident and accomplished hobbit from only a few moments ago?

Well, he found himself wishing he was in Bard's place right now, laughing and grinning with King Thorin, one hand resting on his powerful dwarven shoulder in a camaraderie that seemed so out of reach for a small and insignificant hobbit. It hit him right in his gullet, and he found he'd suddenly lost most of his appetite. Surely he could only manage three servings of the foods soon to be placed before him instead of his usual five. The _shame_.

"Mr. Bilbo," Tilda's small voice caught his attention from one of the long tables set perpendicular to main seating.

"It's Mr. Baggins, Tilda!"

Tilda seemed to ignore Sigrid's reprimand, and instead pointed to the seat next to her own, "You could sit next to me...if you like." The hesitation in her voice was apparent, but she was brave enough to finish her offer before she blushed once more.

Despite his romantic quandary, Bilbo was never one to turn down an earnest offer from a lady.

"Of course, I'd be honored," and with that, he sat, more than ready to enjoy the feasting and dancing, Thorin and his stupid, handsome face be damned.

Sigrid twittered again, much to the obvious consternation of her younger sister, who threw her such a glare that surely all six strings of the musician's hurdy-gurdy snapped all at once. Bilbo, had to admit it was quite vicious, and wondered what could possibly be the source of this animosity between the sisters.

"You don't have to sit there Mr. Baggins, there's more than enough room over here with Fili, Kili, and I.” Sigrid's counter offer was tempting, as Bilbo was far more familiar and comfortable with his dwarven companions than this young girl, but one look at Tilda's devastated face only strengthened his resolve.

"Nonsense, it's not often I have a chance to enjoy good food in such lovely company." He patted Tilda's hand as she shot him an immensely grateful smile. Quick as a flash, she caught his hand as he patted and then squeezed, refusing to let go.

Her eyes had taken on an unfocused, dreamy quality.

_Oh dear._

* * *

 

The evening was turning out to be quite pleasant indeed, more so in that Thorin was finally enjoying the fruits of his hard-earned diplomatic efforts. It's true that he and King Bard had not always seen eye to eye. This was not surprising, given his actions both before and after the Battle of the Five Armies (ridiculous name really, could eagles really be considered an army?). It had taken time, a great deal of time and understanding, for the open enmity between the two Kings to dissolve and grow into something like a tentative accordance. And it wasn’t until many months of transparency and a sincere desire to help King Bard and his unfortunate people, did their fledgling friendship blossom into a true brotherhood.

He was eternally grateful for Bard and his honesty, both with regard to his own handling of matters of state, but also in matters of personal issues as well. Tonight was not the night to speak frankly, however, though the gleam in his good friend's eye spoke otherwise.

As the company settled in their seats, a hush stole over the room.

"My good friends," Bard took a moment to look at them each in turn, "I have never been known as a man of fancy words, this much has not changed since I became the ruler of this new kingdom. Only, I wish to start this feast, hopefully the first of many between our kingdoms, with a toast."

They waited, patient and silent, as a young man attended to the empty tankards with skilful speed.

"Our paths have been forged in dragon-fire, our hearts strengthened and alliances fashioned from despair. It was through those terrible times we prevailed. Now, we are one, wiser, and more humble than before," he raised his tankard to the rafters, "let us rejoice in the restoration of Dale and the reclamation of Erebor. Now drink, that we may be strong and live to see many years more! Drink!"

The hall erupted in a cacophony of cheers and well-wishes, each overflowing tankard spilling a portion its contents onto the table.

Thorin enjoyed his own copious mouthful, taking a moment to wipe a smattering of froth from his beard. His company appeared to be enjoying themselves indeed, and as the last member drained their tankard, the musicians once more filled the air with a bright and rollicking tune suitable for accompanying digestion.

King Bard sat back down with a satisfying thump, motioning for his tankard to be filled to the brim once more.

"A stirring tribute to our past," Thorin offered his friend a sad smile, "would that it had started differently."

"Ah well, you know what they say - had it been different then, it would be different now. Is that truly what you want?"

Thorin caught sight of his hobbit, looking unusually flustered as he sat next to Tilda. The young girl seemed to have thrown off her mantle of shyness and transformed into an eager conversational partner (and as verbose as he knew Bilbo to be, this was saying quite a lot).

"Sometimes I’m not sure what I want at all."

"I’ll not allow you to be so maudlin, especially on this night," Bard followed Thorin's gaze towards Bilbo, and smiled wider than he probably should have, "your Mr. Baggins is quite popular with my youngest. She's been looking forward to this night for weeks."

Thorin was taken aback, "Why is this?"

"Can you not guess?"

His brow wrinkled in disbelief, even as he saw the tell-tale signs of Tilda’s overt infatuation: her singular focus on Bilbo, her flushed cheeks, the uncontrollable giggling.

" _Surely not!_ "

Bard dissolved in a fit of laughter (very _not_ kingly of him), waving a hand in his mirth. “Peace, peace Thorin. It’s purely a childish fascination. Honestly, I’d rather Bilbo than…young Heldig over there.”

Both Kings turned their gazes to the far side of the hall, whereupon a young man leaned listlessly against the stone wall, watching the party with apparent disinterest. Though he must have had some kind of task to fulfill, it seemed he was more concerned with delving the depths of his own nostrils than anything else. Presently, he peered at the tip of his first finger as if thereupon it sat the brightest and most luminescent gem in all of Arda.

“No, no of course not. I see." Far be it from Thorin to judge a young man for a little nose mining, but such behavior belonged to the privacy of one’s own rooms and was _not_ for public observance.

"It will fade in time friend, and I believe Bilbo is none the wiser."

* * *

 

To say Bilbo was uncomfortable wouldn't be quite telling the entire truth. He was enjoying this time immensely, looking around the table at his dearest companions eating the first course, a light pottage with exotic spices, and quaffing the lightest of King Bard's finest ale. However, he'd probably find this time more enjoyable had his attention not been forcibly abducted by one bright-eyed and precocious young girl.

So far, their conversation had consisted of schooling (which she fervently disliked), riding and archery (which she very much liked), and other quips and tidbits Bilbo found childish but quite charming.

"Where are you from Mr. Bilbo?"

He looked away from Fili and Kili, both of whom seemed caught in an intense discussion with Sigrid about who could drink the most ale at a time, and smiled kindly at Tilda.

"Well, dear girl, I am a hobbit, and hobbits come from the Shire."

"Where is that?"

"Far, far to the west. We have no mountains in my homeland, merely rolling green hills and lazy rivers. The particular town I'm from is called Hobbiton. It's quiet and peaceful, unlike here." He waved a hand, encompassing the raucous group of dwarves and men, before gracing Tilda with another indulgent smile.

"And what are hobbits exactly? Are they like elves? Da says elves can live forever!" The gleam in her eyes spoke of something a bit more than excitement.

Bilbo laughed in spite of himself, “No, no, hardly forever. We are not as long lived as dwarves or elves, so we like to enjoy life to fullest. This includes good food and good friends.” He patted the back of her small hand, which had the unintended consequence of making the poor girl turn all manner of shades of red.

He wasn’t surprised at her curiosity; most children of an inquisitive age peppered him with questions he found more than easy to answer, especially since he was the only hobbit (that he knew of) in the vicinity for at least a hundred miles in each direction. Even his mother, the legendary Belladonna Baggins, never made it much further than Rivendell, may Yavanna bless her lustrous foot hair.

Another gulp of ale, and another large spoonful of pottage found Bilbo in a generous mood, and he glanced over at Sigrid and the youngest Durins, amused at their interactions. Further down the table Bombur eyesd the cabbage stew with a dubious twist of his bright red beard. Apparently the cuisine left much to be desired to the dwarven chef.

“When you say ‘far, far away to the west,’ how far do you mean?” Tilda’s suddenly pensive air gave Bilbo pause.

“Honestly? I have no idea. I think something along the lines of nine hundred miles or so…though I can’t be sure, I’ve never really taken the time to sit down and work it all out. Why do you ask Tilda?”

“Well…it’s just – I suppose I should learn all I can…”

Bilbo only nodded, wrinkling his hobbitish brow.

“So that I know everything I need before we are married.”

Bilbo’s mind, normally a riot of rapidly processing information, stopped _dead_ – more dead than the dragon under the Long Lake, more dead than Bilbo’s prized tomatoes after Farmer Maggot’s award-winning hog (Bertha the Destructor) broke into his garden last summer and left behind her own swath of carnage.

Someone choked behind him, and he whipped his head round to catch both Fili and Kili (who had no doubt overheard Tilda’s unforeseen declaration) forcefully ejecting ale from their mouths and noses in long, plenteous gouts of liquid. The liquid arced across the room and landed on an adjoining table, dousing Dwalin and brother in on fell, foamy swoop. Sigrid fell over in her chair, holding her stomach in ill-contained laughter, and Balin lamented upon his newly ale-soaked beard.

Now, let it be said that Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, a brave and selfless hobbit of much esteem and physical prowess, had never been more shocked in his life. But Tilda, the sweet, innocent child that she was, merely looked upon the situation with confusion.

“T-Tilda! I – I must say I, I couldn’t possibly…” he stammered, unable to properly word his response. He was helpless, caught completely off-guard, and looked toward Thorin with an expression that could not be mistaken as anything but an abject plea for help.

The entire feast had fallen silent, and Bilbo’s cheeks were aflame.

From the head of the table, Thorin and Bard shared an unspoken moment, before they both rose and walked regally towards the smitten young girl and flustered hobbit.

“Now Tilda, I’ve told you already, you’re far too young to marry.” Bard leant down to address his daughter with respect, though she returned his statement with a huff.

“You always say that! I’m too young for this or too young for that –”

“Tilda,” Bilbo interjected, hopefully stalling a full blown tantrum, “my dear, my deepest apologies, but I’m far too old for such a – a beautiful lady such as yourself.”

She eyed him dubiously, “You can’t be. You’re as tall as I am, and your hair is still all the same colour.” She motioned to Bard and then looked between the two, “See? Da, has all that white stuff at the sides, says he gets it from being old. So, you just can’t be.”

Bilbo stifled the urge to laugh outright, though Bard looked decidedly amused by his Tilda's observations.

“Well, not that it’s anyone else’s business, but between you and I,” and here he just about whispered in her ear, “but I turned fifty-two years old just last month.”

Tilda pulled a face that would best not to be described in polite company.

“ _Oh_.”

“There now, you see?”

“Sigrid told me you weren’t old at all!” She crossed her arms in a snit and glared at her older sister, who immediately tried to appear as innocent as possible, even while stifling giggles.

“I don’t know how old a hobbit is just by looking!” She said between bouts of laughter. This entire situation was not helped at all by the visages of Fili and Kili behind her, still marveling at how far they were able to spout Bard’s finest ale.

“Girls, if you please.” Bard rubbed hand across his forehead.

Unwilling to be stymied, Tilda looked back to Bilbo. “But, I don’t mind if you’re older, Bain says age doesn’t matter when it comes to true love.”

From across the room, and from in between Dori and Ori, Bain piped up, “ _Don’t bring me into this!_ ”

King Bard sighed, loudly, looking more like he needed help with every passing moment. From his side, Thorin finally stepped in.

“Tilda…far be it from me, a simple dwarf, to crush your plans for the future but,” his eyes moved between all the participants of the room,” but…but, Mr. Baggins is already betrothed to another.”

It was said the collective gasp was heard as far as the Mirkwood, and burst at least one of the berries on Thranduil’s chintzy little crown.

“ _I am?_ ” Bilbo reeled in shocked surprise. Not that he was complaining, but Bilbo would dearly like to know who he was supposed to have pledged his undying love and devotion to (that would be Thorin of course, but the dwarf wasn’t supposed to know that!).

“He is?” Kili ogled.

Bofur sounded distinctly upset, “Bilbo! Yer gettin’ married and din’ tell us?”

“What? Wait…I –” Bilbo stumbled, raising his hands to the room in a plea for sanity. The previously shocked silence was quickly replaced by a gaggle of dwarven voices who seemed more displeased by the possibility of missing a grand party than their companion getting married without their consent.

Thorin moved quickly, placing himself by Bilbo and nudging him in his side. Pursing his lips, Bilbo glared at him, fretting over his delicate waistcoat and trying to find a way out of this ridiculous and seriously unexpected predicament. Thorin rolled his eyes and nudged him again, this time practically to the ground.

Bilbo was just about to give the unfairly handsome dwarf a piece of his hobbitish mind when –

Oh.

Oh _yes_ , of _course_.

Bilbo cleared his throat and spoke in the finest Master Bilbo Baggins of Bag End voice that he could muster, “Ahem, yes. That is to say, my darling Tilda, I love and am promised to another already, you see. S-so, I couldn’t possibly marry you.”

Tilda appeared more inconvenienced at this new information than saddened, which had the advantage of making Bilbo feel far less guilty this little (teeny, tiny) white lie.

“There is more than enough time for marriage in the future Tilda; you try to grow up too fast.” Bard put a gentle arm around her shoulders, and Tilda sighed with resignation before offering him a small smile.

“Yes da.”

And with that, the musicians once more placed bow to string and struck up a light tune to remind the guests assembled that this was a feast, not some sort of overdramatic, scripted, _elven_ stage-play.

Bilbo surveyed the entire hall to make sure the ordeal was truly over. Kings Bard and Thorin had retaken their seats, and looked much more entertained than before (though it was at Bilbo’s expense, no doubt). The rest of the company chattered away, Fili flexing his large biceps for Sigrid’s eyes only, and Bifur and Bombur dutifully eying the next food course with extreme prejudice. Whatever initial shock they’d expressed at Bilbo’s marital plans had quickly fallen by the wayside, and he’d make sure to clear things up as soon as they found themselves back inside the mountain.

Everything seemed to return to normal, or close thereabouts, and Bilbo decided disaster was indeed averted. He smiled to himself and dug into his roast lamb with gusto, savouring every spiced mouthful until Tilda discreetly cleared her throat.

He met her gaze, slowly, and not without some trepidation.

“I just wanted to say that it’s alright we can’t get married now.”

Bilbo swallowed his spoonful but for the life of him he couldn’t come up with a response. She smiled somewhat mysteriously and leant closer.

“But tell me…is Dwalin betrothed to anyone?”

 _Oh dear_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a fantastic time was had by all!
> 
> In my research I have come to believe that the hobbits do indeed use the word "year" for their calendar, so I have just decided to use this term across all peoples of Middle-Earth.
> 
> This ages of the children are as follows: Bain 17, Sigrid 16, and Tilda 10. I have fiddled with them a bit for the sake of the story.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
